From the first week, Caldwell tried to expose him. He called him to the board with impossible problems meant for advanced seniors, hoping to catch a mistake. Ethan solved them calmly, cleanly. The more precise his answers, the deeper Caldwell’s resentment grew.
One Tuesday morning, tension filled the room. Caldwell wrote a brutal integral across the board — something rarely attempted at that level.
“Does anyone,” he asked with a thin smile, “have the courage to try? Though I doubt it.”
Silence fell.
Then Ethan raised his hand.
Laughter flickered through the room. Caldwell gestured for him to proceed.
Ethan walked forward, picked up the chalk, and began. It wasn’t hurried — it was fluid. He simplified steps, skipped unnecessary detours, revealed a cleaner path than the textbook offered. In under two minutes, the solution stood complete.
The classroom was still.
Caldwell examined every line, hunting for error. When he found none, his face hardened. In a sudden burst of anger, he grabbed the chalk and snapped it in half.
“Math?” he spat. “You probably can’t even count spare change properly. Get out.”